


Bring your friends (It's fun to lose and to pretend)

by knockmouth



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Young Justice (Comics), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Forced Masturbation, Fuck Or Die, Gun Kink, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Spit As Lube, Stripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-23 05:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30050724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knockmouth/pseuds/knockmouth
Summary: Tim knows better than to fall into these sort of traps. The kind that starts with a gun against his temple, nudging the edge of his mask, and Kon frozen on the other side of a warehouse, calculating whether he’s fast enough to stop the bullet.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent, Tim Drake/Roman Sionis
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23
Collections: Romin Week 2021





	Bring your friends (It's fun to lose and to pretend)

**Author's Note:**

> Day 5 of Roman/Robin Week — Fuck or Die.
> 
> Title is from Nirvana's _Smells Like Teen Spirit_. 
> 
> This idea came from the DC Kinkmeme: <https://dckinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/766.html?thread=222462>.

Tim knows better than to fall into these sort of traps. The kind that starts with a gun against his temple, nudging the edge of his mask, and Kon frozen on the other side of a warehouse, calculating whether he’s fast enough to stop the bullet. 

He’s not. The thin scar along the base of Tim’s sixth rib is proof enough of that. No one’s fault, just a hostage exchange gone wrong and Kon’s attention elsewhere. An accident. 

There’s nothing accidental about this situation. Tim knows, deep in the core of him, that he got them in this fix, knows that he has no one to blame but himself for the way he’s shivering beneath the press of a loaded pistol, eyes locked with Kon’s across the room. 

“You kids really know how to cause a scene,” Roman says, announcing his presence as he descends the stairs into the warehouse proper. Tim doesn’t shift from where he stands at the forefront of Roman’s team of men, pulse erratic and breathing still exerted from the night’s activities. 

He assumes Roman’s referring to their team, to the scene they’d caused dismantling one of his operations on the docks. Cassie had made quick work of his crew, while Bart had hurried the victims out the back door. Tim and Kon had gone to run interference on the reinforcements, to buy them time until the League could show. 

This is one form of interference, Tim acknowledges with a bitter flush, as Roman crosses the pavement to survey the bird caught in their midst. Not for the first time, Tim flexes his wrists at his sides, venting undirected energy as unease crawls steadily up his back. 

His gaze follows Roman as the crime lord approaches, one hand tucked into the pocket of his suit. Like holding vigilantes hostage is an unremarkable occurrence. Tim’s been out of Gotham so long it might just be. 

Even from across the floor, Tim can see Kon’s hands when they clench into fists at Roman’s advancing stride. He knows what Kon's temper is like; knows _Roman's_ too. Tim knows that they aren't holding enough cards here to go making rash decisions. Shakes his head the most minute amount, keeping the meta at bay as he waits for Roman to finish sizing him up like a piece of meat. 

Tim licks his lips, drawing in a deep breath and refusing to meet that burning stare when he says, “Roman—” 

The pistol cracks across his cheekbone, shoving a shout from his throat as he staggers. The palm around his bicep yanks him ruthlessly upright. Tim pants, gaze flicking to Kon to note the terse coil of muscle down his arms, before he runs his tongue over his teeth and tries again. 

“Black Mask.” When that doesn’t immediately earn him a reprimand, Tim exhales shakily and continues, “Let’s talk this through.” 

“I think you and your friends have said enough,” Roman chuckles, tossing a glance at Kon. He looks small, in the shadow of the machinery, compared to the team of men on Roman’s side. Tim’s a huge proponent of never judging a book by it’s cover, but even he has to admit the situation is pretty dire. 

Roman turns back to look Tim over again, unimpressed. 

“Do you know how much money you cost me tonight?” 

Tim opens his mouth, and that gun gouges deeper into his temple. His jaw snaps shut on the rhetoric. 

Roman’s smile is poisonous, thin and sharp like a blade. “Any suggestions for how you’re going to repay that debt?” 

“How about we get out of your hair,” Tim suggests with a levity he doesn’t feel, glancing briefly at the sleek head of Roman’s skull. His gaze flits back down to the pavement, deferential. “You sound like you’ve got a lot on your hands. You walk away, we’ll walk away. No harm, no foul.” 

Roman’s laughter is grating in the empty space. Tim half expects his crew to laugh along with him, but their silence is all the more deafening in its absence. 

It makes his skin crawl, the cruelty in that laugh. The violence there, poorly veiled by a humor Tim doesn’t share. 

“Strip,” Roman says bluntly, and Tim blinks. 

“I’m—” 

Roman shifts, one hand wheeling generously through the air. “You can keep the mask. Spare whatever pathetic face you’ve got hiding under there. It’s not what I came here to see.” His voice takes on a hard edge when he demands, “Lose the rest.” 

Tim glances at the sparse crew, the hard, hungry glints of a dozen eyes where they rake over his body. His stomach twists at the thought of being naked, of being _exposed,_ to a group of strange men. Defenceless, vulnerable. 

His gaze flicks to Kon, drawn back at the ratchet of the gun’s hammer. 

“Robin,” Kon says, imploring, but he doesn’t look back. 

Tim nods fitfully, hands going to his belt, twisting free the latch with practiced efficiency. Even if his fingers tremble. 

It clatters to the ground, pooling with his cape, before Roman instructs, “Slow down there, Flash. What’s the rush? Give us a show.” 

Tim’s stomach sinks into his heels, ice blooming in the hollow space it leaves as he meets that amused smirk. 

“Nice and slow,” Roman reiterates, when Tim’s hands go to the concealed zipper, peeling it down his spine so he can shimmy it down to his waist. He hesitates there, almost hoping Roman will cut him loose, will laugh and tell him this was all a sick joke. 

But this is Roman, and all he gets is an impatient wave of his gloved hand. So Tim steels his breath and shucks the uniform down to his heels. 

The low, teasing whistle he gets makes Tim’s chest ache, makes him shrivel beneath the scrape of those eager gazes as he steps out of the fabric. Nothing but the thin materials of his briefs between him and a room full of men. 

Still, unsurprisingly, Tim’s thoughts go to Kon. He looks incensed when Tim glances over, a hair’s breadth from launching across the space to snap Roman in two. If it weren’t for the gun that stays trained on Tim’s skull, he would have already, Tim’s sure of it. 

It’s a bad sign, how angry Kon is at Tim’s humiliation. Tim doesn’t know what else Roman has planned, but he’s sure it’s not likely to improve from here. He knows enough about the crime lord from the files he’s read and the eye-witness accounts. 

So he knows that he needs to get Kon out of here, for both their well-beings. Far away from here, where he can’t be held hostage as much as Tim currently is, both of them trapped in whatever game Roman’s playing at. Especially, as Tim knows, if this goes wrong. If it goes south, and Tim catches another bullet to tally against Kon's failures. He won't let Kon put that on himself again. 

Tim forces himself to look away from his boyfriend, to hold Roman’s gaze when it travels up the length of his naked body to meet his still-masked eyes. “Let him leave.” 

“Robin,” Kon growls, and is soundly overlooked by Roman. 

“This isn’t a negotiation, sweetheart,” Roman tells him, as if amused by his attempt. “This is a ‘do as you’re told or your boyfriend will be scraping your gray matter up off the floor’ sort of scenario.” 

Tim swallows at that mental image, but tries again. “He doesn’t need to be here. I’ll stay, I’ll do whatever you want. _Whatever,_ ” he repeats, stressing the syllables as Roman’s lips twitch into a broader smile, “you want. Just let him leave.” 

“I’m not leaving,” Kon barks. 

“I’ll be getting whatever I want whether your boytoy hangs around or not,” Roman drawls, and waves a hand at the cold concrete beneath Tim’s bare feet. “How about you bend over and show us what we’re working with?” 

Dread is sharp, slicing through Tim’s calm. Roman doesn’t even flinch at the look of panic that must grace his features. 

It’s Kon who answers, the snarl ripping from his throat. “How about you go _fuck_ yourself?” 

Roman turns to regard him with a cool, scathing look. “Just for that, you can do it with a pair of pretty bracelets on, birdie.” 

Tim’s brows knit, a chastising look thrown in Kon’s direction before he reminds himself that that doesn’t help anyone right now. “Roman, that’s—” 

“The rest,” Roman says harshly. “Now. Don’t keep me waiting, sweetheart.” 

When Tim’s shaking hands go to the last remaining item, Roman turns to the grunt closest to him and orders, “Get me some cuffs.” 

Tim tries not to think about it, tries not to let the humiliation permeate deeper than skin surface. If he thinks of this like a mission, something detached and easy to digest, he can almost pretend it’s not him baring himself to a roomful of men. It’s not him standing naked, a shiver that has nothing to do with the chill scratching down his spine. 

He can’t bring himself to look at Kon, cheeks burning all the way back to his ears as he fixes his gaze firmly on Roman’s mask. Clenches his hands into fists and sets his jaw as the man’s gaze rakes down his naked body. 

Tim jumps when something metal clatters at his feet, startled into glancing down. His stomach sinks, twisting into a whole new kind of knot when he recognizes the cuffs from his own belt. 

“Why don’t you put those on for us, birdie,” Roman says, like it’s any sort of suggestion. “And suck Jimmy’s glock while you’re doing it.” 

A hand clamps over Tim’s shoulder, shoving him down to his knees with a grunt of pain, before the man in question takes a firm grip of Tim’s jaw and presses the gun against it. Tim stays detached, stays up in his head and out of the pounding ache of his chest, flicks his gaze up the length of that barrel to meet the crooked grin waiting for him. 

“Mask, this is—” That’s Kon’s voice, thin and strained, and Tim opens his mouth to take the gun down in one smooth motion. 

It tastes like metal and oil and gunpowder, and Tim shudders, tongue recoiling as he winces. But keeps his head down, doing his meagre best not to remember the bullet nestled in its chamber, the finger tracing the trigger guard in a circular motion. Like they’re still deciding whether Tim gets to keep his brain. 

It makes nausea swell on the back of his tongue, and Tim takes an indulgent moment to close his eyes and recenter himself. Push out the panic of _being here,_ and retreat to that place in his head where this is all some elaborate test of Bruce’s, controlled and constructed in the safety of the Cave. Nothing more dangerous than a blank waiting at the end of the barrel sitting heavy on Tim’s tongue. 

Twisting to reach the cuffs takes a complicated maneuver, but Tim manages to get them in his fist, fingers going to the latches on automatic to flip the metal rings open. 

It’s not until the first one locks tight and cold around his bare wrist that Tim’s common sense catches up to him, and then he freezes. Blinks down at the gun between his lips and the cuff dangling between his fingers, and the concrete biting into his kneecaps, and _shakes._

“Baby.” 

It’s so soft it could be a curse, strangled with pity and fear and so many other emotions that Tim can’t parse right now, when all of him is aching for Kon’s touch. For the reassurance that this is an exercise, a game — anything other than the reality of him blowing a gun at Roman Sionis’ demand in a warehouse on the East Side. 

With his captive boyfriend to watch him play to this sadist’s every whim, and no promise of rescue from their friends. 

Tim sobs, the sounds muffled by the gun, as everything rushes up behind his sternum. It’s only Roman’s cold, “Stay down on it,” that keeps him from pulling off completely. 

He chokes down another sob, eyes stinging with the force of keeping them clear when he reopens them. His lips makes a wet sound when he swallows, drawing a thrilled leer from the man above him that Tim stoically ignores. 

Without looking down, he grips the open cuffs, twisting his arms into the small of his back before he can lose his nerve. Before he can invite whatever sick punishment Roman has lined up for his disobedience, Tim slams the cuff closed around his other wrist, the floor disappearing beneath him when that staccato ratchet vibrates through his ears. 

There’s silence, for a heavy moment. And then the soft clap of Roman’s gloved hands. 

“Eager for it, aren’t you?” Roman laughs, to a chorus of jeers. Tim shrinks, on his knees with a gun in his mouth. Jaw aching around the need to reassure Kon that it’s going to be okay, the words trapped by the barrel. 

When the grunt above him shoves the muzzle further into his throat, Tim tries to take it with as much grace as he has left. He focuses on the harsh slide, flinches at the slam of the trigger guard against his teeth before he slackens and lets it in. 

The gun goes deep, buries itself far down in his throat, until Tim’s sure he can feel it in his chest, eyes watering. Spit bubbles over his stretched lips, nostrils flaring around a breath he can’t draw as he stares up and prays mercy. 

The grunt’s expression is frozen somewhere between disbelief and awe as he tilts Tim’s head back with his grip on the gun, guiding his throat open more until Tim’s looking up at the darkened skylights. “You want me to shoot him, boss?” 

Tim whines and closes his eyes, hands curling in their restraints. 

It’s Kon who answers first, a raw desperation to it that makes Tim shake. “Mask, please. We’ll do whatever you want. Just, please, don’t—” 

“I’m already getting what I want,” Roman contradicts with a patient smirk. Tim can hear him approach, a slow show of strength as his footsteps grow louder and Tim’s pulse ricochets. 

A hand slides into his hair, Tim’s teeth knocking the gun when he winces reflexively. It smooths over his crown, slipping down to cup his skull as he sits on his heels and waits for Roman’s next order. A patient pet at the end of a gun. 

It makes bile churn dangerously in Tim’s stomach, reminding him how very naked he is next to the crime lord’s dark suit. How completely defenceless they are in the wake of Roman’s sadism. His gaze flicks to keep them both in view as Kon frets, a canyon away. 

Kon licks his lips and tries again anyway, his entire body leaning into the plea, rooted to the spot. “Mask. You can have me. You can do anything you want to me, I’ll take it. I’ll take all of it. Just please, not him. Don’t— Don’t hurt—” 

“Oh, you’ll be getting yours soon, Superboy,” Roman assures him, and Tim whimpers on the barrel, brow pinching in a question. Roman chuckles at his expression, smearing a trail of drool across Tim’s cheek before withdrawing again. “Got something special for the both of you.” 

Tim feels the muscles in his neck tighten, clenching all the way down his spine as Roman steps away. The gun’s withdrawing in the next moment, so sudden that Tim’s mouth tingles with the absence. He coughs, glancing at Roman’s retreat before his grunt’s hand goes to Tim’s shoulder. 

He folds easily, no protest left in his body when his chest is shoved to the floor, knees aching against the concrete. Roman waits, just off to the side, a perfectly unobstructed view of Tim’s thighs when his grunt taps the pistol against the quivering muscle. 

“You working yourself open for us, baby, or are we gonna have to do it ourselves?” 

As if in confirmation, the muzzle trails up the soft skin of Tim’s thighs, digging deep behind his balls when he hiccups a sob and shakes his head. He’s vaguely aware that he’s crying, fingers trembling when he reaches back to hold himself open. 

The cuffs restrict most of his movement, his shoulders aching as his weight shifts to give Tim a better angle. It’s only when he lines up the first digit that Tim realizes he has no lube. 

The grunt above him laughs sharply, his hand joining Tim’s on the swell of his ass, holding him steady even as Tim flinches. There’s the grating sound of saliva displaced in the back of a throat, and then a mouthful of spit hits Tim’s bared hole. 

He closes his eyes, taking the few moments he doesn’t have to try to ease his breathing, center himself. Shove down the nausea rippling up his throat, burning him from the inside out. 

It’s when the grunt nudges the descending liquid with the muzzle of his gun, back towards Tim’s hole, that he cracks his eyelids open and plunges a finger in. Hisses immediately at the friction, but doesn’t stop until he’s worked two fingers in and the gun’s withdrawn. 

There’s no real grace to it. Tim’s joints are too numb, and the angle’s too harsh, to derive any sort of pleasure from the motions. But if it will mitigate whatever Roman has planned next, Tim will take the opportunity gratefully. 

He startles when the grunt’s hand closes around the back of his neck, fingers slipping free as he’s hauled back up into a kneel. He’s not sure how long it’s been, time unimportant when his heart is thrumming loud enough in his chest to drown it out. 

Tim sits back on his calves, throat tight as the grunt releases him. He steps around to Tim’s side, something in hand that makes Tim’s body go numb. 

It’s a familiar, sickly shade of green. Luminescent and glowing faintly in the dim light of the warehouse, held proudly in front of Tim’s blank gaze. 

“Thought you and Superboy could use a gift after your recent relationship announcement,” Roman says, all malignant glee as Tim stares at the Kryptonite dildo before him. “How does it measure up?” he adds, grinning over at Kon. 

Tim’s chest clenches at Kon’s expression, at the helplessness there. There’s a horrific vulnerability to it, Tim’s own emotions thrown back in those blue eyes. 

He can’t stand to look, can’t shoulder the weight of Kon’s terror on top of his own as a boot eases between his knees and nudges his legs wider. He lets it happen, lets someone else pilot his body, lets himself slip away from the moment. Like his participation has ever been a choice. 

“Here you go, sweet,” the man says with a twist of a smile, one that serrates through Tim’s calm as he crouches to line the dildo up with Tim’s bared hole. “Custom made, just for your tight ass.” 

Tim can’t find the resolve to protest, a breath stuttering from his lips when the broad head teases his entrance. He tries to think of nothing — think of Kon, think of _nothing_ — as he sinks down on the violently green length. 

His head is bowed, so he sees the dildo disappear when he rocks down on it, each inch worked mechanically into him as he pants and struggles to adjust. A tremble chases up the length of his bare spine when Tim settles, seated. 

He must hesitate for too long, because then Roman is calling out, “Well? Don’t keep us waiting, sweetheart.” 

Tim swallows a groan, pushing himself to rise slowly up the slicked, slippery length. The muscles of his thighs quiver with every rise and fall, humiliation seeping through his pores as Tim keeps his gaze fixed firmly, safely, on the concrete between his knees. 

It’s not enough to block out the opportunistic whistles or the murmured comments of encouragement. 

“Look at that tight little hole,” one of the gangsters croons, and Tim shivers into the pavement. 

The slick length eases back in, deeper than Tim thought possible, as he picks up a tempo that has him clenching down hard every time it punches into his prostate. 

“Look at him clench,” Roman says, low and raspy as he watches Tim shake. “Ever seen anything like that, boys?” 

Tim gasps, wrists jerking in their cuffs when he shifts and the angle changes to grind relentlessly against that bundle of nerves. It wrangles a cry from him, and Tim wishes he had his hands free, if only so he could claw into the pavement, vent some of the sensation that’s rippling through him. 

He feels guilty, for how good it feels. For deriving any pleasure from this, when Kon is standing not fifty feet away, watching him roll his hips back into every thrust. He tries to curb the sensation, to bear it like he ought to, but each slide has Tim’s voice hitching, has a sob building higher in his chest. 

“What do you think, Superboy?” Roman asks, the derision clear. “How’s your boy look fucking himself on a Kryptonite cock?” 

Tim mewls, humiliation and shame bubbling to the surface as his swimming gaze lifts to meet Kon’s. The dejection there shears his heart clean in two. 

There’s a bleak horror on his features, draped in a disgust that Tim can’t ignore. Can’t bring himself to do more than sob and drop himself down on the cock again. 

“Please,” he breathes, chin dipping to his chest as he lifts himself on trembling thighs. “Black Mask, please.” 

“Tell me how good it feels, sweetheart.” 

Tim whines, head shaking until that gun returns to remind him of what’s at stake here, remind him what he stands to lose if he doesn’t comply. He has the sudden horrifying thought that Roman might kill him anyway, might leave him stuck here on a cock, fucking himself in the last second the bullet cuts through his brain. 

The adrenaline that floods him does nothing to lessen the ache of his cock, or the throb of his pulse in his ears. Does nothing more than hitch his cries up into something desperate, something pleading, words indiscernible when they slip from his trembling lips. 

“Fucked himself stupid,” Roman comments with a snort, twisting Tim’s gut with a new kind of humiliation, sapping the babble spilling from his mouth. He can’t see through the tears anymore, can’t see the loathing on Kon’s features when he clenches down on the cock and feels that familiar swell ripple through him. 

He’s close. And, Tim realizes with a sudden desperation, he doesn’t want to come like this, speared on a kryptonite cock, jeered on by Roman’s goons in an empty warehouse. Shaking beneath the fury of his boyfriend, beneath the scrape of a gun. 

Lifting himself back onto his knees take all of Tim’s strength, thighs and core protesting as he rises. He’ll come, if Roman demands it, but on his terms. Spared this small act of mercy, of decency. 

He only gets halfway up before a boot is biting into his thigh, shoving Tim back onto the length so hard and forcefully that it punches the air from him. Shoves all thought of self-control from Tim’s addled mind. 

All of him coils, snapping at the core as he comes, white spend coating his stomach as he sinks deep onto that cock. Mouth falling open on the cry he has no air left for. 

Everything is muted, for a while. The crash of orgasm knocking his senses around as Tim drags in air like he’s drowning and clings to what remains. 

It’s a few minutes before the ache returns, deep and permeating between his thighs where he sits, still speared on that green cock. The cling of sweat and drying cum, streaked down his torso. 

His vision comes last, his hearing returning with the scrape and heave of his lungs to remind him he’s not alone. 

When he opens his eyes, Kon’s standing there, and Tim’s never felt emptier. 

“Ruined his pretty hole for you, Superboy,” Roman says, like it’s a favor. Like Tim’s a gift he’s wrapped up and left at Kon’s feet, coated in his own spend and shame. 

He can’t stifle the sob that bubbles up through his throat, and Tim doesn’t feel entitled to his grief when he can see Kon’s own staring him in the face. 

“We’ll leave you two to get acquainted with your new toy,” Roman continues, like there isn’t a sobbing teen at his feet. He smooths down his suit, ignorant to Tim as he curls in on himself. “Next time, try to stay out of my business.” 

Kon doesn’t move. Doesn’t take a single step towards him until every last grunt has filed out of the warehouse. Until the echoes of Roman’s footsteps have long since receded. 

Not until Tim manages to choke down enough air and wail, _“Kon—”_ does he shoot across the distance. 

His hands on Tim’s skin feel wrong, cold and shaking when they cup his jaw, smear his tears. They go down to the abraded skin of his wrists after a moment, curling like steel around his cuffs. Everything splinters beneath Kon’s fury, all of Tim collapsing against him when the metal snaps with a loud protest. 

Kon guides his thumb across Tim’s lips, one arm winding around his waist to ease Tim gently, carefully, off the length spearing him open. He’s set down on his knees in the next moment, all of him aching with Kon’s proximity as he cries and clings to the meta. 

Sorry doesn’t feel like enough, when Tim hadn’t even put up a fight. So he doesn’t put one up when Kon scoops him up against his chest, tucking Tim’s knotted brow against his shoulder as he lifts off. Leaves a piece of Tim back in that warehouse, wrapped around the fear and the shame as the night air cloaks them. 


End file.
